


A New Tradition

by blundersofthedas (amfaeriot)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi, i threw the canon down the rocks on the Storm Coast and all I got was this lousy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3243332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfaeriot/pseuds/blundersofthedas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go badly wrong, you have to adapt. There's no choice, no chance without going forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracked, Crushed, Crushing and Cursing

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is being reposted again, but after being super displeased with it I pulled it down for rewrites. I've never really written a fic before!  
> This story will involve a few OCs, there were be some naughtiness and some violence. But there's nothing yet, so I'll add tags and warnings as they become necessary. Please do leave feedback, I'd love to hear from you.

The view was beautiful from the coast. Nehna loved it, despite the storm – or perhaps _because_ of it. Pounding thunder, flashes of lightning, the crash of the waves against the rocks, it was perfect and she delighted in running along the edge laughing, joking, and playing with her traveling companions. It was a trivia contest this time; the loser would be assigned chores and the winner got to sit on the throne for an hour and have their feet rubbed and Nehna was losing. But she didn't mind, not really, she was – what had Sera called her? An Inquisitor for the people?

 

Blackwall was doing the asking, and she stopped her gallivanting to listen to him. He scratched his beard a moment, thinking, then quirked a smile and asked his piece.

 

“Ivory walls, with velvet lined,

Golden treasure waits inside.

No door to open, no window to see,

The golden treasure waits for me.”

 

Sera rolled her eyes. “ _Ugh._ All fancy. Isn’t a poetry contest, yeah? That didn't even make any sense.” The blonde archer crossed her arms and blew a raspberry while Varric smiled slyly. “It's not exactly a tricky riddle, think everyone knows this one. Give us a different one, Hero!” But Sera looked frustrated, bottom lip thrust out, she grumbled under her breath.

 

“Well, _I_ don't know it.”

 

Nehna smiled warmly, sort of bouncing in place. “It's an egg, Sera. The ivory walls are the eggshell, the velvet lining is the membrane and the golden treasure is the yolk.” The Inquisitor looked pensive a moment.

 

“Now I want a fried egg. Damn.”

 

They laughed. Dorian smirked and crossed his arms. “I've got the best riddles. I mean, clearly, Blackwall's doing well enough but I spend day-to-dusk in a library, don't I?” He sounded so proud of himself. He always did. Nehna liked it, though she knew he _had_ to be proud of himself. Where he came from, nobody else was. So she wasn't invested in the idea of pouring water on his ego.

 

“Oh yes, Dorian. I'm sure. We Dalish have plenty, too. We should all make a big book of them, ooh! We should all submit some riddles and maybe Varric can put them in a book and it'll be grand. We can make a _proper_ game of it, with rules and prizes, and it'll be the _best,_ and--”

 

Dorian laughed. Nehna was excitement personified, as usual, but something was wrong. As his energetic friend rocked left to right on her little bare feet, the bit of earth she stood on began to move.

 

By the time his lips parted to warn her, it had crumbled away and Nehna was gripping white-fingered on the sea-spray covered rocks.

 

Blackwall was the first forward, but it was too late.

 

She slid on the wet stone. She didn’t even scream.

 

They could hear the crack of bones breaking. Blackwall’s eyes seemed to age ten years as Nehna disappeared into the rolling waves, leaving a bloom of red behind. Sera was grave and Varric silent, though Varric had to be quick to keep Dorian from the edge - he’d elected to jump in after her but he could have been lost too. He wasn’t a strong swimmer and the wet rocks were jagged, sharp and treacherous.

 

Nehna's name, he'd learned, came from the Elven word for Joy and she hadn't always been joyful. She'd been scared and angry, thrust into a role she wasn't prepared for – the Herald of a God that wasn't _hers._ But she was a good leader, joyful and childlike, she was also fair and pragmatic when it was called for. She wasn't born for this life, yet she had eased into it like it was made for her.

 

Blackwall, on the other hand, _was_ born for this life. He was a soldier. He'd been a soldier for years but today he was useless. He swallowed the lump in his throat, this was just one more failure for the list he kept in his heart.

 

Blackwall’s eyes narrowed, voice wavering just slightly as he spoke.

 

“She’s gone. There’s no point in standing around, contemplating our navels and watching the water. We need to get back to Skyhold. They... they need to know.”

 

Dorian’s eyes flashed, nose wrinkled and disgust evident on his face as he pointed the finger, laying blame at the aging Warden’s feet where it didn’t belong.

 

“Don’t you think you’ve got command of us, we’re not here for _you_. We were here for Nehna. And _she_ was here for you. And she’s gone, because _you_ had her collecting fucking relics! She wouldn’t even be here if she wasn’t trying to help you recover some stupid forgotten glory. She’s dead because she _cares_. And you don’t!” It wasn't fair, he knew it wasn't. He'd seen the ground crumbling and hadn't said anything in time, he'd failed her just the same. He wanted a fight. His face was red, eyes mournful, kohl at his waterline running from tears he wouldn’t shed until he was alone in the library. Nehna, his best friend since he lost Felix. He wanted a reaction, something different to feel than this.

 

Blackwall shook his head, wrinkles around his eyes stressed.

 

“I know.” He answered, voice low, dragged on the gravel and close to cracking. He offered no explanation, only repeated himself.

 

Dorian raised his hood and followed. It wasn’t fair - she was an Elf, Dalish, but somehow the Herald of Andraste. And neither would she have a Dalish funeral, or an Andrastian pyre. The Maker’s chosen, lost and forgotten beneath the waves.

 

Sera, too, was hurting. It wasn’t fair at _all_. Nehna was an elf, an _elfy_ elf no less. But she was good. She hadn't gotten too big for her breeches, she didn't punch down. She helped _everyone._ Sera would have been foolish not to appreciate that. Nehna was also _very_ cute, all woolly curls and bright eyes. Tiny tits, though. She laughed bitterly and cleared her throat, plucking a rough handful lotuses and hurling them into the waves.

 

“ _I had a crush on you, you daft bitch. Didn’t ever notice, did you?_ ”

 

But the others didn’t laugh at her antics, not this time.

 

Varric brought up the rear, heart turning to stone in his chest. A grand story, cut too short. He'd told her to get out while she can, but nobody listened to _him_ until it was too late.

 

 

They were all glad to leave the Coast behind.

 

\----

 

Usually, they were glad to be back and people were happy to see them _,_ but this time they somberly marched through the gates with faces cold like stone. Without joy, without Nehna. It was typically something they looked forward to, being back home at the Keep but too much sadness and anger was clinging to them. They barely looked at each other, and went their separate ways after Varric elected to be the one to bear the news.

 

He had a way with words. He could use them to uplift or destroy, bolster an attack, or dampen the blow. It wouldn't make the news _better,_ but maybe it would be a little less destructive.

 

As the others dispersed, Varric went to the training grounds to look for Cassandra.

 

It didn’t take long to find her. She was reading, sitting on an upturned milk-crate and smiling, happy and calm with a rosy flush in her cheeks.

 

Varric hated that he had to destroy that peace.

 

He greeted Cassandra with a thin, empty joke.

 

“Hey, Seeker. You know what would be worse than Corypheus showing up here and wrecking up the place?” He asked, standing beside her. She made a face at him, but then, she always did. Varric didn’t think she could go without it, if he was being honest.

 

“ _Ugh_. What? What could be worse than that? And what is the point of this?” She snapped, clapping the book shut and trying to hide it behind her folded hands. S _words and Shields_ , again. Nehna had commissioned it for her from Varric, and she loved it.

 

What she didn’t love was the look on Varric’s face when delivered the punch-line.

 

“If Nehna was killed on the Storm Coast. Right in front of us.”

 

Cassandra’s eyes grew wide, shocked, but then she glared at Varric in the sort of way that made him want to take out a life-insurance policy.

 

“ _No_. You’re having a laugh. Trying to, to see what happens if you tell me this. I will not give in to your schemes, _Varric_.” Cassandra didn’t like the way his eyes darkened, the way he exhaled like he was giving up.

 

“It’s not really a joke, Seek-- Cassandra. I wish it were a joke. I’d give literally _anything_ to just be having you on. But I’m not. It was an accident, bit of ground she was standing on crumbled away and she slipped on the rocks into the ocean. Had to keep Sparkler from diving in after her. The Inquisitor is _gone_. I’m sorry.”

 

The look on Cassandra’s face broke his heart a second time. She was hyperventilating, she looked utterly lost, shoving Varric out of the way and stomping into the great hall, presumably to bring the news to the Advisers. But Varric knew her better than that, she'd go to her room and punch a wall or two perhaps, but then she'd cry.

 

And _then_ she'd bring the news higher up. If Varric knew anything, Cullen would fret, and Leliana would pretend to not care only to beat herself up over it in private. And poor Ruffles... he didn't want to think about it.

 

 

A bell rang out in the keep, and people from every corner of the fortress milled around on their way to the dining hall. None of them knew. Did they have to? What was Nehna to the common man, that they needed to know she was gone? To them, the Inquisitor wasn't a person. The Inquisitor was an _ideal._

 

So let the people be joyful and happy and safe. They'd spent so long scared and deserved it.

 

But the mood in the dining hall was strange, Nehna's inner circle were all somberly eating – that is, the ones that could bring themselves to partake in the meal. They were waiting for something.

 

They weren't waiting long.

 

Cole appeared at the foot of a table, warm smile on his face as joyous rambling tumbled from his pale lips. He'd found a rabbit on the grounds, and had spent hours playing with it. And one of the cats had given birth to kittens and he loved them, and there was a _real_ baby born in the night.

 

But he trailed off, words slower as the pain hit him like the waves that crashed over Nehna's broken body.

 

Cole's face twisted in sadness, he shook his head in disbelief and barely restrained a sob.

 

“ _No! No, you’re wrong. You’re all_ wrong _and she’s fine! She can’t be lost! She can’t be lost because I_ need _her_!”

 

After that, Cole wasn’t the only one crying.

 

Solas, scowling in a corner and avoiding his supper led the boy away back into the Rotunda. And there, surrounded by the mural that he was painting for Nehna, pulled the spirit-child close.

 

The mysterious elf felt badly for his friend. Nehna and Cole were close. Nehna was close with everyone, but especially so with Cole. She'd brook no argument on the matter – Cole was good and anyone who said otherwise was speaking to a brick wall for all it mattered.

 

They had been on a trip to Val Royeaux to secure goods for the Keep. Nehna wanted to go with the merchants herself, and took Cole with her to see the sights.

 

“Look at the hats _,_ Cole. There are _so many_.”

 

But Cole had made a social misstep. He felt that someone needed him, a waitress at the cafe. He tried to help, but he'd frightened her and she made to call for the guards.

 

She never got the chance. Nehna had popped up beside him, all smiles, and defused the situation with ease. She joked about Cole's parentage but called him 'my brother, all the same' and led him away.

 

Cole had been so _proud_ to be claimed that way.

 

It wasn't fair that today he was distraught. Too much pain that he couldn't help. Too much that was his own. Solas held on to his young friend, noting the tears soaking through his vest as the boy sobbed felt too real.

 

Solas wouldn't cry, he was years beyond crying, but he wanted this to be a dream. The thought that next he woke, it'd be in a world where Nehna had failed... It was no good.

 

He'd relish later the bitter taste of tea, he neither needed nor wanted to sleep tonight.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chelle was standing with her feet in the water, salt crusting at the hem of her dress as she watches her brother arrive over the hill. The sun nearly blotted him out, but the little fluffy dots of sheep behind Louis gave him away. She picked up the basket of mussels and carried them into the house. Emptying the mussels into a large kettle, she turned to her father, Arnaud.

 

“Louis' back, papa.” She said, coolly. It chafed her that Louis was allowed to leave the homestead and she was not. She was just as good with a bow as Louis, just as able as Louis. But Arnaud kept her where she could be seen. It was frustrating, the way he kept her caged. Comfortable, but confined all the same.

 

This time, Louis had been permitted to take most of the flock far inland. He'd found a large amount of good grass and took the sheep to graze there. But, it was miles away and her brother had been gone now for three days. He'd have  _stories_ to tell, at least, and Chelle looked forward to sitting and watching him sign excitedly about what he'd seen and heard and done.

 

Arnaud could tell when his daughter was discomfited, he wasn't a stupid man by any means. Perhaps it wasn't fair but he wanted to keep her safe. He couldn't lose her the way that he'd lost his fiery Tara, beaten and strung up. Nor could he lose her to the Templars, or to men with appetites for elf-blooded women. There were too many dangers for his Michelle. Strong as she was, the world was stronger. Someday, maybe, she could go out into it. When she was older, perhaps, but not today.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

“Oh, is he? Well, why don't we make a good supper to welcome our Louis home. I will start with the mussels, _mon fifille.”_ Arnaud pulled himself up and ambled toward the kettle in the back of the kitchen. He turned over his shoulder and felt his heart sink as he gave Chelle just the smallest taste of freedom. He knew it wouldn't be enough but it was something, some small trade, a measure of liberty for his little treasure.

 

“Chelle. Why don't you go further along the coast. There's always dewberries a little ways up from the water, yes? Why don't you go and gather up some? You could be back before dark.”

 

She perked up, pale eyes brightening at the thought of being able to leave – just for a little while. She plucked a basket from under the table and all but ran out the door giving little more than a wave to her returning brother. Louis looked in the window at his father and shared with him a small, sad smile.

 

Louis didn't want her to go, either. He still remembered what happened.

 

He'd been young, seven or eight years old, when his mother was killed. They still lived near the village then. Louis had accompanied his mother to the village this time, to trade her handcrafts for goods. Little Michelle was still too young, she was only a baby, so she stayed at home with their papa. Louis was so proud to go with his mother. He had to be brave, papa said, and protect her on her trip because she was very full up with the new baby and couldn't fight as well.

 

Things were okay, in the village. Many people didn't like Tara because she was an Elf, because she was Dalish, or because she lived as the wife of an Orlesian expatriot despite having no formal marriage between them. But they were cordial, they wanted her crafts and they could tolerate her as long as it took to trade them.

 

This time, however, things went badly. A young boy, Louis' age, was struggling with a cart when it collapsed on him. Louis remembered the sound his legs and arm and ribs made when they cracked. He was struggling to breathe, he was going to  _die._

 

Tara decided that was unacceptable. She pushed Louis back, dropped her baskets and knelt beside the boy. Magic crackled in the air and the cart lifted away, Tara focused hard with sweat beading on her brow as she poured magic into his broken body. After a time, the little boy awoke. He laughed and hugged Tara and thanked her, for he didn't yet know how to fear a mage. Such bigotry had not yet been taught to him.

 

The boy's father had a lifetime to fear mages. Tara had been an acceptable sort of unsavory. An elf, a frog-lover. This, though, was too much.

 

It happened too fast. Louis didn't understand. His mama had saved the boy. The boy was happy. Why wasn't his papa happy?

 

He didn't want to watch them beat her. He didn't want to watch them hold her arms away as she tried to guard the life inside of her. But they made him watch as they shaved her head, as they cut her ears off, as they poked her with sharp knives and put a rope around her neck. All the villagers were shouting and cheering and clapping their hands as she struggled and as she died.

 

They caned Louis and cut his hair off, chasing him away.

 

Louis never spoke again, never allowed his hair to be cut again.

 

Arnaud mourned for years. He packed up their home and led his children further and further away from the village, down close to the coast. He burned the home he built for Tara and vowed never to let such terror befall his daughter.

 

His drive to protect her doubled when she showed signs of magic. It wasn't  _right,_ he'd be the first to admit it. A woman should have every freedom a man has, a woman should not be bound or leashed to a man. But Arnaud couldn't allowe her to be killed, couldn't allow her to be desecrated like his Tara. He knew he was doing wrong, but he'd  _be_ wrong if it meant his daughter was safe.

 

As Chelle left down the coast to gather those dewberries, Arnaud felt his heart break. A million ways for his daughter to die ran through his head. After Louis penned the sheep, he went to his father's side and smiled.

 

Chelle was tough and good with a bow. She was nothing for combat magic, she had no training. She could shoot, though. Arnaud had taught her how, as he taught her to fight with a knife or a sword and her own hands and feet. He taught his girl to fight. She should be fine.

 

Arnaud, however, was not comforted by this.

 

–

 

Dewberries were perfect. Big, fat berries as black as night, sweet and tart in the same bite. They were a treat, rare but treasured, and Chelle stuffed herself with them. For every one she put in the basket, she ate three more, and her fingers and lips were stained with purple. When she was full of the sweet berries, she buckled down and filled her baskets up.

 

So  _messy,_ she thought, and slid down the bank to wash her hands and face.

 

When she reached the water, though, her eyes widened and she grinned. What a  _lucky_ find.

 

Samphire.  _Everywhere._ It was growing in thick tufts in the sand, there was so much of it. Oh, she  _loved_ samphire. Briny and delicious, she could eat it every day and never tire of it. Chelle plucked it in huge handfuls, tying the front of her dress into a pouch to carry it in. Sand crusted on her feet as she edged along the rocks to grab another handful.

 

There was seaweed on the sand, too. A thick, richly-green rope of the stuff, an edible variety that she didn't care for but Louis adored and she reached to pull it up too.

 

But something was wrong, and she let go quickly.

 

There was a body in the sand. Chelle thought at first that it was a boy, younger than she. But upon further examination she realized it was an adult woman. An adult  _elf_ woman.  _And that she was alive._ Perhaps she was barely alive, but she breathed all the same. The elf-girl was in bad shape, one leg laying loose from its socket, arms at odd angles, face broken and bruised and cuts oozing dark into the sand.

 

The seaweed would have to stay on the beach. There wasn't time to harvest it, she ran up the bank and grabbed her baskets and  _ran_ like the wind back home.

 

Arnaud laughed as she approached, legs bare, skirt tied up full to bursting with the crisp-green vegetable. But he stopped short when he saw the panic in her eyes.

 

Chelle dropped her haul and started barking out orders.

 

“Louis! Get a clean bed-sheet out of the chest and give me your crook. Papa, empty off my bed and lay new straw. Separate the black wether from the rest of the flock and lash his legs together. There's someone on the beach and she's badly injured, and I'm sorry but I have to do something.” She was out of breath, forceful and loud and giving no room for disagreement. Louis rushed to do as he was bidden, but Arnaud wasn't as sure as his children.

 

He did as he was asked with a brow knit in worry, his brave girl was putting her life on the line to save the life of some stranger. There was no dissuading her, though, he knew. He watched Louis and Michelle leave and called out.

 

“Be careful, _ma petit tresor._ Your good heart will bring you to ruin.”

 

Chelle either did not hear him, or did not listen. It did not matter.

 

Back on the beach, Chelle made something like a stretcher with the linen bed-sheet and wooden crook. Louis helped her to lift the broken body onto the white sheet, and the injured woman looked around with glassy eyes. Terrified, hurting, Chelle could see now how bad the injuries really were and knew that she had work cut out for her. As Chelle tucked the injured elf's arms up next to her body, she noticed a sickly green glow in the hand.

 

Chelle grinned.

 

“She's a witch like me. Well, witch-girl. Let's try and get you sorted, shall we?”

 

 

—

 

Solas sat staring at the cup on his desk with a scowl.  _Tea._ He hated it. It was bitter and astringent and left his tongue sticky and mouth dry. Worse, perhaps, was that it kept him awake at night. He remembered telling Nehna about his dislike for the stuff. Soon after they returned home, she brewed for him an herbal blend. It was soft and sleepy, full of milk and honey and tasting like comfort. He longed for it now, to replace this bitter cup.

 

They were doomed, now. Nehna had closed the breach and nearly at the cost of her own life. But there were open rifts still, and work that needed to be done. But what was the purpose of the Inquisition now, he wondered, and would they still be able to defeat Corypheus? Solas felt a pang in his chest.  _His_ indiscretion was now the world's problem. It wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to free his people and bring them to a new glory, not desecrate the world they would live in. His indiscretion would destroy the world, it had already destroyed thousands of lives. Certainly, Nehna was his friend and he missed her. But as his Wisdom told him, he must endure.

 

His own sadness at losing a friend didn't  _matter._ Her death would doom everyone from the youngest Tevinter slave to the eldest Rivaini oracle and everyone in between.

 

Lost in thought, Solas was startled at the sharp rapping at his door. Dorian poked his head in and cleared his throat.

 

“We've all of us been asked to meet in the great hall, Solas. Time to decide the future of the inquisition and all that. You know how it is, our fearless leader falls and we've got to soldier on. Perhaps we'll elect a new Inquisitor, now I think on it.”

 

Dorian was trying to sound cheerful, but it fell flat and he knew it. He wondered if maybe nothing would ever sound cheerful again. It wasn't that he intended to be dramatic, it was only that the world needed Nehna. But, so did he! He hadn't had many friends. He was bookish  _and_ flamboyant. Perhaps he'd be easier to get along with if he'd chosen one or the other. But he wasn't in the business of changing himself to suit others. After Felix had gone, Nehna was his only  _proper_ friend. His best and his only friend, and he felt strongly that the world was worse off without her even if she  _weren't_ the Inquisitor.

 

He was being selfish. He was more worried about his life without her than he was about the destruction of the world.

 

Pulled from his reverie, Solas stood and nodded to the dark-haired mage. He wasn't on  _fantastic_ terms with part of Nehna's party. He wasn't fond of Sera, who was willfully ignorant and crass and he found Vivienne distasteful not for her humanity but for her arrogant and spiteful attitude toward those without her standing. Perhaps she had earned her place, but few had the opportunities she did. Solas exhaled through his nose and put it from his mind.

 

It wasn't about him, or his feelings. It wasn't about  _theirs,_ either. He chewed the inside of his cheek and composed himself. This was a necessary meeting, they needed to come together to plan some way of righting the mess he made, but it didn't stop his stomach sinking as he followed Dorian out.

 

The entire party, those who would travel with Nehna directly, were somber and calm. Cullen and Cassandra stood stoic at the head of the room with arms folded behind their backs, and Cullen cleared his throat before speaking.

 

“Thank you all for coming. After last week's unfortunate event, we've come to the conclusion that despite Inquisitor Lavellan's charming nature and obvious skill...” Cullen paused, taking a breath as his voice cracked. He was suffering for the lack of Lyrium and trying to be stronger than his cravings, but occasionally he just needed a moment.

 

He gave the party a thin, weary smile and continued on. “The Inquisition exists whether or not Nehna does. We cannot let our bereavement get in the way of what the Inquisition was formed to do. The Breach is sealed, we need to continue  _her_ work and stabilize affected areas. We need to continue investigation Corypheus and when the time comes, we need to bring the fight to him. My role, as well as Leliana's and Josephine's, will not change. For the time being, Cassandra will be leading you. Though this is a tragedy, we must absolutely make it appear that we are a unified force for order.” 

 

He leaned against a table and crossed his arms, rubbing at his neck. The circles beneath his eyes showed stronger in the low light. Were Nehna here, she'd drag him out into the sun for chess and sparring and take his mind off the craving.

 

But she wasn't here, and there'd be no chess and sparring.

 

Cassandra folded her arms tight over her chest and spoke next to fill Cullen's silence. “Clearly, we find ourselves in the same position as before. We're an Inquisition with no formal leader. I am happy to stand as acting Inquisitor but an election  _will_ be held, selected from those of you assembled as well as some others. Of course.” Weary. Too much worry, too many things going badly, she didn't know how well she would lead but she  _would_ lead as long as she was needed.

 

“Of course,” she continued, “those _not_ elected are not going to be held. I'm well aware that some of you are only here because of things that Nehna has done, and without her have no reason to stay. You will not be conscripted or harassed, but you may be called upon in the future as hirelings if things continue to get worse. We may need you in the final fights. Now, a vigil will be held honoring Inquisitor Lavellan later this evening. As I understand her body was not recovered, we have nothing for the pyre but an effigy. It will have to do.” Cassandra sat on the edge of the table near Cullen and they spoke between themselves quietly, as Josephine and Leliana were doing. The Ambassador nodded and stood, hands folded neatly and clipboard sat on the chair beside her.

 

“Of course, there _may_ be a benefit to keeping the Inquisitor's death a secret. A decoy hired to act as a mouthpiece could promote the illusion that we are as strong now as we were under Lavellan's leadership. The populace does _not_ need to be made aware of our loss. It could further destabilize places we've already secured,” she suggested.

 

The assembly spoke between themselves. It wasn't a bad plan, and Josephine was speaking truly.

 

One by one, they agreed. And so, soon, auditions would be held. They would hire a girl who looked like their lost leader, who would issue orders from their secret Inquisitor. That was what was needed, it would keep the people calm.

 

Nobody in that room felt right about it, though, none of them  _liked_ it.

 

Least of all, Cole.

 

He disappeared from the assembly and reappeared elsewhere on the other side of the keep. It wasn't  _ fair.  _ They were going to replace her, erase her, make it so that she would never have existed. They would make it so that losing her didn't matter! Cole slammed the door shut, barred it, and tucked tightly into a corner, Cole  _ howled  _ in despair.

 

 


End file.
